Paper Thin
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Ashley's perceptions in the days when Craig is first diagnosed bipolar.
1. Chapter 1

I'd taken the ride with Joey to the emergency room because, because I seemed to be the only one getting through to Craig. Or somewhat through. Things weren't quite getting through.

Joey drove despite the bleeding lip and rapidly puffing eye. I sat in the back seat with Craig, and I felt afraid of him. He was upset and quiet, for once. I realized he really hadn't been quiet in weeks. I made the shushing noises my mom had made to me when I was little and some scraped knee or fight with some grubby kid on the playground had seemed like the end of the world.

"Shhhh, it's okay," I said to him, rubbing his back. I wondered what world was ending.

Caitlin had stayed with Angela, and as we left I saw the frightened look in Angela's eyes.

Joey was calm despite the blood, and he drove steadily toward the hospital. I gazed out the window at Yonge Street, looking at the theater my dad had always taken me to before he'd left. I closed my eyes and thought of the balconies and the paintings on the domed ceiling. I thought of the lobby with the red rug spread over it and the coffee counter and the little tables, and how comforting it was to go there in a storm, my dad's gray scarf wrapped around his neck, my little mitten hand in his.

The hospital was suddenly filling the windshield and I glanced at Craig, his eyes still wet from his tears. I noticed that the knuckles on one of his hands was scraped raw. Had he done that punching Joey or sometime before?

There were no spots close so Joey parked at the edge of the lot, and I wondered how we'd ever cross the whole wide lot. How would we bridge the gap?

In the emergency room waiting room I bit my lip, watched as Craig hugged himself and rocked slightly forward. There was something in his eyes that prevented me from talking to him.

"Ashley, you should go," Joey said, freeing me. Craig glanced at me with this desperate lovesickness that I couldn't get used to, and I pretended I wanted to stay for his sake, but maybe Joey saw the truth in my eyes.

"No. You should go," Joey said, and I nodded, and Craig looked away.

Now I was coming back. Joey had called me, told me that Craig was "stabilized" on psych meds, that he was bipolar. He told me it was a mental illness that caused mood swings, manic behavior and depression.

"What, what causes it?" I'd asked on the phone.

"They think it's a chemical imbalance in the brain, well, it is. They're not too sure what causes it, exactly," Joey said, hedging some bet I was dimly aware of, and he finished by saying, "I think it would be good for Craig if you came to see him,"

So I started the arduous process of doing things that were good for him. I barely felt it as a burden, because underneath that crazy light in his eyes was the boy I loved. I knew I could find him again.

But I felt paper thin, I felt the nerves singing under my skin. I breathed in that glassy air as I headed toward the hospital and the psych floor and my boyfriend who I swore I didn't know anymore.

It wasn't the usual hospital floor where you wander in with flowers and get well cards. I had to be let in a locked door and asked if I had anything sharp or anything dangerous. I shook my head and bit my lip. All the dangerous things were safely tucked away in my head.

I crept toward the room they said was his, and behind a curtain I saw him, sitting Indian style on the bed in his flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt. He was calmer, the jagged aura had burned away. I almost recognized him again.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'm crazy, Ash," he said, and I sat on the bed with him, felt sad for him. Crazy. He had been acting crazy, and it wasn't just an act. These doctors and psychiatrists had confirmed it, had given him medication and all of that to try and fix it. I couldn't get over the new calmness. He used to be calm like this. It was like visiting someone after a fever had broken.

"If I'm sick like they say I am, I'll be dealing with this for the rest of my life," he said, "shrinks and medications,"

The rest of his life. God, that seemed so final. Bipolar. It wasn't a phase he'd outgrow, it wasn't a reaction to some specific life event. It was a disease and it was for the rest of his life.

I didn't know the dangers then but I would. I'd read about it at the library and on the internet after I left him there in the care of the medical professionals. I'd learn of the dangers the psych medications could have in the long run, the risk of kidney failure, the side effects, the adjustments that would need to be made. I'd learn about the ongoing treatment and therapies and medications and the danger of drug use/abuse, the risk to jobs and relationships. I'd read about what predisposes one to the mental illness. Maybe the abuse by his father and the trauma of his parents' deaths triggered it. Maybe those things were the match to the wick.

I laid down next to him, and I couldn't help but notice how pretty he was, how handsome, how sad in this hospital bed. He seemed sweet in the flannel pajama pants and soft T-shirt, white socks. Vulnerable. I could protect him. I could love him and be there for him, I could find him under all the manic behavior, the fever bright eyes, the talking, the racing ideas. I could be there to pick him up when he fell.

"You can go," he said, turning away from me, "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave,"

It was a challenge. I wouldn't leave. I'd stick by him, I could adjust to this new reality. Because I loved him. I loved his creativity and his gentleness, his everything. If it included bipolar then it did. I swallowed hard and turned his face back to mine.

"I'm not leaving, Craig," I said, and he smiled softly, the hope creeping back into his eyes.

Out in the hall Joey was waiting to see him. I could tell by the redness of his eyes that he had been crying, and that gave me pause. This was serious, maybe more serious than I wanted to believe at that moment.

"He seems better, doesn't he?" Joey said, looking for affirmation.

"Yeah, he does," I said, agreeing eagerly.

He does.

0000000000000000000000000000000

I was home the day I knew Craig was leaving the hospital. It was one of those days, the sky achingly blue, the air clear. This would be fine. I wasn't worried. I knew he was going home and I thought I'd just let him adjust, I wouldn't go over right away. I'd see him in school soon enough.

"Ashley," my mother said, her voice that worried firm that it had been since Craig had barreled back into my life.

"Yeah, mom?"

"Doesn't Craig come home from the hospital today?"

"Yeah," I busied myself with the dishes, with clearing the table and wiping it down.

"Are you going to go and see him?" I could feel her looking at me, but I looked at the table, at the wet sponge in my hand. I could feel the cool air from the open window, I could feel the sun on my face.

"No. Not today,"

"Good," she said, too fast. I let it go. I knew she had no love for him. What did I expect? He'd broken my heart last year and I was so upset, so depressed that suicide had honestly entered my thoughts. My mother knew that. She'd never forgive him. Now this. He was too much for her, and I supposed I could understand. But she should try to see my side of it. I loved him, and love wasn't just about loving someone when it was easy, when it was convenient.


End file.
